Murder in the Limelight (6 page)

Obadiah’s look changed to one of reproach. ‘You know, Mr Archibald, I never leave it, not when the stage door’s open.’

‘So no one could have come in from outside without your seeing,’ said Archibald, hope gone.

‘I told Mr Auguste already,’ said Obadiah firmly, ‘no. And if I can say so, sir, you shouldn’t have to ask me that. I’ve worked ’ere fifteen years,
fifteen
years, and you should know by now, sir, that no one gets past my door. Not the Queen herself, God bless ’er, without she ’as an appointment.’

Seeing he had gone too far, Robert Archibald hastily uttered placatory words and the old man calmed down. Robert Archibald sighed. So it had to be someone from inside the Galaxy. He felt it like a physical blow. What had happened to his happy Galaxy?
Et in Arcadia ego.
A snake in
his
Eden. What had he done to deserve it?

‘Yet Monsieur Bates, someone did, did they not? The Honourable Johnny,’ Auguste pointed out.

Obadiah cast a hurt look at him, and closed his lips obstinately. They began to tremble slightly. ‘I can’t go inspecting every cake, every basket of fruit that comes in. It wasn’t fair.
Honourable
Johnny – huh.’ Obadiah’s face registered disgust at this misnomer.

Robert Archibald glanced kindly at the old man. ‘You can’t be expected to keep up with every trick like that, Obadiah.’

‘A cake today, laundry basket tomorrow. Can’t do your job fair and square nowadays,’ Obadiah grumbled. ‘Anyway,’ he said more brightly, coming back to the case in point, ‘no cakes got left outside Props’ room. I’d have noticed if bits of crumbs had been lying around my corridor.’

‘No one’s blaming you, Obadiah,’ said Archibald.

‘Only meself, Mr Archibald, sir. Only meself.’

‘Think Obadiah’s getting too old for the job, Didier?’ Archibald remarked some half an hour later, napkin tucked well in round his ample chin, the remains of a pot of tripe and onions (
à la mode de Caen
) in front of him.

Auguste was appalled. This business was indeed making everyone lose their perspective. Obadiah was Archibald’s man, interpreting his every wish, closer to him than anyone else, even Auguste himself, in the running of the Galaxy. He had the power to decide on the fate of every caller, not only to visit the cast but to Archibald himself. It was Obadiah who kept creditors away when times were unfortunate; he who summed up the potential of aspiring actors and actresses, who tactfully dismissed the unsuitable, such as the clergyman determined to become Hamlet or the matron of fifty who rather thought she’d like to sing; he who had thwarted the last piece of chicanery tried at the Galaxy by a discharged stagehand, when his sharp eye noted that the caller had turned not towards the wardrobe mistress’ domain as befitted the self-termed cobbler’s messenger, but towards the dressing rooms.

‘You cannot blame Obadiah for last night, monsieur,’ said Auguste earnestly. ‘The Honourable Johnny is a determined young man.’

‘Perhaps you are right. But all the same, it does show that someone could have come in from outside. You can’t forget that, Didier. Our joker is not necessarily from the Galaxy itself.’

‘But it would have to be someone close to the Galaxy, if not one of us, to know the lay-out of the theatre, our ways—’

‘Why?’ Archibald burst out. ‘Why do all that for the sake of a practical joke? And against Florence of all people. Now why should someone want to upset Florence? It doesn’t make sense, Didier.’

He had tried to convince himself it was mere spitefulness on the part of a jealous chorus girl because who else could dislike Florence? No one. He was born and bred to the strange complex world of theatre, where tensions were heightened, emotions intensified, by the claustrophobic world they lived in. As the rehearsals continued, under-currents
could build to a crescendo. But this was different. He had always prided himself that the Galaxy was above that sort of thing. Indeed, till now it had been. Perhaps this musical comedy was a mistake. Perhaps he should go back to burlesque.

‘Mind you, Didier, I don’t think it’s anything really. Just a joke.’ It was the cry of a drowning man. Archibald regarded Auguste hopefully, seeking the reassurance he could not give.

‘
Non
, Monsieur Archibald. I do not think so. You will not easily discover who played this trick with the dolls, I think.’

‘I could appeal to their better natures, to come forward for the good of the theatre?’ said Archibald hopefully.

Auguste hesitated. ‘I think, monsieur, the good of the theatre will not be uppermost in their minds. You must ask yourself first who does not like Miss Florence. For someone does not like her at all.’

‘Everybody likes Florence,’ said Robert Archibald, shocked.

‘Yes,’ said Auguste, ‘she is like the mackerel.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The mackerel. As the
bon
Grimod de La Reyniere said: “The mackerel has this in common with good women – he is loved by all the world.”’

Robert Archibald tried to grapple with the concept of dainty blonde Florence Lytton as a mackerel, and failed.

‘Yet, it is not quite true,’ Auguste went on. ‘Some do not like the mackerel. It is a good fish, yes, but it does not agree with everybody. Perhaps Miss Florence does not agree with some people.’

Archibald sighed. ‘I heard about that blasted marionette song. It’s a song, just a song.’

‘It is an ingredient, my friend.’

‘Ingredient of what?’

‘Perhaps disaster.’

Archibald blinked. ‘Come now, I admit I was rattled by
those blasted dolls – but disaster? Bit strong, isn’t it, Didier? Nasty sense of humour someone’s got, and it’s got to be stopped. But it isn’t that important in the long run. Dammit, man, this is the Galaxy!’

‘And an hour before the curtain went up last night four of your main people were at each other’s throats; Mr Hargreaves would not speak to your leading lady, his pianist was teasing him, your leading man was failing to support his wife who was attacking the pianist. Normally the pianist would hardly be opposing the will of the conductor, Miss Lytton would have been on the best of terms with Mr Brian, and Mr Manley would have been riveted to his wife’s side. None of these things happened.’

‘Because of a song?’ Archibald’s voice was disbelieving.

‘In the Provençal dialect, Monsieur Archibald, the mackerel is called the
peis d’Avril.
You call that the April fool. It seems that Miss Lytton is your April fool. But you do not know where the joke began – nor, Monsieur Archibald, where it will end.’

Egbert Rose looked round his tiny office in the Factory, as they called the Yard. Books, papers, files cluttered every shelf. He wouldn’t have them touched. It was his home. Mrs Rose was a keen housekeeper, perhaps to make up for her culinary shortcomings, and even his den did not remain inviolate. He made up for it here. He liked dust. It made everything feel secure. His. He knew where everything was. He’d had nearly four years now in this new building. It had been an upheaval moving from the Old Scotland Yard, but he was settling down nicely now. The villains could watch out.

He went to the door dividing his office from the lesser fry.

‘Constable Edwards, get me the Ripper files.’

Edwards looked up, startled. ‘The Ripper files, sir?’

‘You heard me.’

‘But he’s dead, sir.’

Rose regarded him lugubriously. ‘You aiming to be a sergeant, laddie?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Then get me the files, son.’

He returned to his desk, and reread the report on Christine Walters. The corpse had a name now, an identity, and with identification came the prospect of having to break the news to her parents. The girl had lived in lodgings, so it had been two weeks before hesitantly, reluctantly, her parents reported her missing. The theatre had reported her missing after three days, though with no great sense of worry. Nothing more sinister in it than a better job, an ardent beau, or irate parents, they’d implied. These things happened with chorus girls, they disappeared from time to time, but it was not usual at the Galaxy. The theatre inculcated a sense of responsibility in its girls, and therefore the disappearance of Christine Walters on September 27th, flighty though she had been, was a departure from the norm, and thus to be reported to the authorities.

And eight weeks later she turned up, a corpse in the Thames, identifiable only by the dress she wore and the rings on her fingers, details gleaned from her colleagues as a precaution on the Yard’s first being notified of her disappearance.

‘Here, Inspector.’ Edwards staggered in with a mountain of files. ‘Had to make Chief Constable’s report, sir. They’re specials, sir.’

Rose sighed. Of course. McNaughten would want to know about anyone seeing the Ripper files. Half the population of London still lived in dread he would return. They weren’t to know, and the Yard couldn’t tell them, that the Ripper was dead. Or so they assumed. But they could be wrong, there was the hundredth chance, and he dreaded to think what Her Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria would have to say about
that.
She had made her displeasure at the Yard’s handling of the Ripper case very plain – even
started to play detective herself. This case had better be solved quickly.

He didn’t like those crossed arms. He didn’t like them at all. The girl hadn’t been touched with a knife, not even interfered with – but there was something about those arms . . . He began to read the Ripper files. Recalling the photographs, the endless reports, the Ripper’s eerie letters, it all started to come back. He’d been a sergeant then, not directly involved with the case, but he’d gone along to the room where Mary Kelly had been found – it wasn’t a scene he was likely to forget. She had been the last in the series. Series . . . What reason could there have been for those arms to be crossed? Wasn’t to keep them out of the way. Done after death, so the report said. All laid out, like a ritual, like a figure on a mediaeval tomb. And that reminded him of something else he couldn’t quite bring to mind . . .

Some time later, Rose emerged from the hansom at the imposing Mayfair portals of Summerfield House. He regarded them gloomily and advanced on the entrance. The butler was not impressed, clearly hesitating as to whether to redirect him to another, lowlier entrance. Rose was not impressed by the butler.

He stepped in firmly, ignoring the waves of disapprobation emanating from the doorway.

‘Lord Summerfield,’ he said firmly.

‘He’s expecting you?’

‘No,’ said Rose cheerily. ‘Just tell him Scotland Yard, my man.’

From the look on the butler’s face, he was clearly now convinced of his error in admitting the inspector through the front entrance. Nevertheless, he vanished speedily through an ornately decorated door.

It was some while before he re-emerged, time in which Rose had ample opportunity to study the Ming vase, the ornate group of Staffordshire figures, and the Cotman watercolour that graced the hallway.

‘Lord and Lady Summerfield will see you,’ the butler announced in terms of one astounded beyond belief at the honour conferred. Rose handed him his bowler, his cane, his ulster, taking his time, and then maliciously indicated that the butler should take those of Constable Edwards who stuck beside him like a faithful, attentive shadow.

Lord Summerfield rose from his leather armchair in the morning room as they entered. He was a tall, thin man of about forty. It was hard to estimate his age accurately for he had a smooth, impassive face on which emotions played but lightly. Good-looking in a patrician kind of way, Rose decided, if you liked those long-nosed types. He had a pipe in his hand, the barrel of which he stroked constantly with his thumb.

‘Good morning, Inspector. You called once before.’ The visit had clearly not been a passport to Lord Summerfield’s favour.

‘Yes, indeed, sir,’ said Rose woodenly. ‘Same business, I’m afraid.’

‘Mother, this is Inspector Rose of Scotland Yard.’ He did not bother to introduce Police Constable Edwards. The Countess of Summerfield, holder of that title until such time as her son should marry, a time which would be dictated by her, acknowledged his presence with the merest inclination of her grey, elegantly coiffured head. No Dower House for her, she had determined. She remained seated in her armchair, back erect, eyes piercing, face impassive, hands on the chair arms, waiting. Like a vulture waiting to pounce, thought Rose. Poor devil, no wonder he’s nervous. It was the first time he had met Mother. Summerfield had been alone last time, though scarcely less nervous.

‘I came to tell you, sir, that Miss Walters has been found. She’s dead, sir.’

A flicker passed over Summerfield’s face. Then he turned and gazed at his mother.

The stentorian voice spoke. ‘As I gather my son
explained to you before, Inspector, he is unable to help you. Occasionally, in order not to disappoint friends, he accompanies them to the theatre – the Lyceum. He has no knowledge of the Galaxy or of the persons employed there.’

‘And as I explained earlier, ma’am, we have several witnesses who claim that Miss Walters told them she had arranged to dine with Lord Summerfield the evening she disappeared.’

‘My son,’ said an icy voice, ‘does not dine with girls of that class. These
people
are clearly mistaken.’

Rose turned to Lord Summerfield.

His knuckles were clenched white around the pipe stem. ‘So you told me before, Lord Summerfield. Is it true?’

‘I – well, just that once, perhaps – there were to be several of us, Mother.’ He was more scared of revealing the truth to her than to the police, Rose noted dispassionately. ‘I hardly knew the girl, however.’

Lady Summerfield said nothing, though her lips grew a little thinner and her stare icier.

Once Rose might have been intimidated. Now he wasn’t. ‘Nothing wrong with those Galaxy Girls, ma’am,’ he said easily. ‘Nice lot they are. Why, the Duchess of Stockbery once told me that within ten years’ time half the aristocracy—’

It had its effect. Mention of the Duchess mollified Her Ladyship and, though still suspicious, she stayed out of the conversation.